


And We Reach

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Hurt Crowley, Prose Poem, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: How Crowley actually Fell.





	And We Reach

He is a Seraphim.  
They are of the warrior variety—strong of stock, practically royalty. He doesn't like war, though, so he is more of a healer.  
He heals hearts, for the most part. Or souls—whatever you would like to call that thing inside you that makes up your Heavenly matter.  
He can't remember being created, or named, but he knows he is the Archangel Raphael. He knows he is important, that God chose him in a way he can never understand.

_I do not love in a way you can understand, because infinite love is undefinable. It is ineffable._  
  
He likes storms.  
He likes storms because thunder sounds eerily like his voice, and lightening reminds him of when first saw Heaven, how his whole being was alight.  
And rain—oh, what an excellent job the Almighty had done on rain. Rain is the sweetness on his neck that drips slowly to his naval, rain is the secret that stings his tongue. Rain is the smell of the air—clean and more importantly cleansed. He loves the rain.

_Watch, watch! We get only so many storms like this in our time._  
  
The other Archangels do not like him.  
They send him spiteful looks and talk sickly sweet, they are pretenders, they are fools. He thinks they do not like him because he asks questions—he questions everything, like every mission is a song and a question is just the melody, just the chorus he must complete.  
Of course he asks questions, because he is curious, and he wants to be right. He wants to do right, be good. What if the Archangels are not doing what the Almighty wants? He asks like it is his liberty. They answer like it is his death.

_You wear a cloak and mask but lay your secrets in your naked palm._  
  
He creates the stars to make something beautiful.  
Gabriel got to make the wind, and Uriel the Sun, so he decides he will create something gorgeous—a canvas that is never truly complete.  
When he builds the universe, crafting each galaxy and nebulae with gentle hands and keen eyes, he makes them a democracy.  
Here, there is no leader. There is death and destruction and in it's place, always rebirth. There is no star that implodes because it has done something wrong, it implodes because the universe is very big and the other stars need to blossom as well.  
He invents supernovas like he is not diving into one.

_Look up._  
  
He receives praise for the stars— _YOU HAVE DONE WELL ON THEM, RAPHAEL. ALL OF CREATION SHALL BE BLESSED WITH THEIR BEAUTY—_ and that instills fear and jealousy into the hearts of the other Archangels. He is becoming afraid.  
He holds Heaven in glass hands.  
  
_Weep, weep and scrape the pits of the alter box. Weep, because your faith is forgotten. Have you forgotten?_  
  
There is no Earth, but he hears there is one in the making. He hears that it will be a splendid place full of new creatures, and that his divine duty will be led there. He is excited for it, happy for it. He will get to see things and make things in new ways. He will get to Heal, he will be beloved, be a saint.

He will be _beloved_.  
He will never get to see it in that way.

_To be a saint is to lie._

“Archangel Raphael.”  
It is Gabriel, next to him suddenly like an omen. His voice is like that of a tumultuous ocean, his eyes are burning with the fury of the righteous.  
“I have done nothing wrong,” Raphael says, like a warning, like a threat.  
“You must be cast out.”  
“Please.”  
This, a prayer.  
He hears no reply.  
  
  
Falling is like drowning.  
It is suffocating. It corrodes the lungs and dull the sense. It envelopes the flesh and pleads for the bone, it sings the song of lost grace.  
And he grabs at the air.  
He grabs at the air as he would grab at the water—fruitlessly, passionately, and with a never ending envy. When do we turn our hands to the sky? When do we beg to feel the presence of God? Then, when we are drowning. And we reach. He is reaching.  
  
_Soon you will understand._  
  


And he hits the ground.


End file.
